Elevator Music
by strangled voice
Summary: Do we ever really see a face in passing. Is it possible to truly understand familiarity? A Narco, strangely enough. I'm in the mood.
1. life in a box

Dear fans/crazy people who read this shit I write:  
  
I wanted to write a Rory/ Dave fic, but I can't do it, and I don't know why, so we'll see where this goes. Maybe it will venture off into ramble on territory, but I sincerely doubt it. Maybe a Narco, I haven't even thought in that direction in a while... I guess we'll see.  
  
Rory stepped off the subway and made her way through the hoards aiming in the opposite direction. Her nose was buried in a three week old copy of the New York Times, and her hair was pulled into a frizzy, wild ponytail on top of her head, the result of a bad perm she didn't have time to tame. She was wearing one pink sock and one frilly white sock with black pumps, and her coat was buttoned into the wrong holes. The poptart hanging from her mouth was about to break off and tumble to the dirty sidewalk beneath her. She didn't notice.  
  
The subway stop was half a block from her office building, and all she needed to do was make it to the warmth of the elevator, but with no concept of her surroundings that was a far more difficult task than it would be for the average human being. She headed in the right direction once she got above ground, but she would have walked past the annonymous building if the doorman hadn't been there to stop her, and she would have pressed the wrong button in the elevator (or not pressed a button at all) if the model she'd had a couple dates with a few months back hadn't been heading up to the agency a floor above her's. When Rory finally reached her office and sat down at her desk she looked up, wondering how she got there. That had been happening a lot lately.  
  
___  
  
The first time Dean was stopped it had been in the grocery store. The woman was tall with absurdly long, clicky red nails that tapped the counter while he rung up her lettuce. She switched to tapping her black stilettos when he moved on to the fruits, and by the time he got to veggies she was twirling a strand of brown hair around a milky white finger. The hair was probably "Cinnamon Mocha" or some other ridiculous name devised for a hair dye, and not just brown, but Dean didn't stop to look at the box lid when he tossed it in the bag with her toilet paper and tampons, he had spent too many years ringing up purchases to notice anymore. As the woman picked up the bags with one perfectly manicured hand she offered him a card with the other. Stella Evans Modeling Agency, it had read in a fancy silver script, with the number (212) 555-0188 extension 666.  
  
"You should give us a call some time," the woman called over her shoulder as she headed out the door.  
  
He had forgotten the encounter by the end of the day, but still had the card tucked in an old shoe box, stuffed between a picture of his little sister in her high school play and the bulletin from his first marriage. Just another random event in a string of minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. Nothing to waste his time over.  
  
The second time was at the mall. He was in the tux store for a last fitting, his fiance didn't want him to wear the same tux to both his weddings, but this one would only be the second of four by the time he was 25. This woman was short, with platinum blonde frizz and hot pink heels that made her look more like a hooker than a modeling agent. She introduced herself as Celeste Mackenzie and told Dean that she could make him a star. Her card was crammed with information: a work number, a home number, a cell number, a beeper number, a toll free number, an e-mail address, and directions to the agency. Everything was written in a childlike font that matched the color of his shoes. He'd tucked the card into his pocket and forgotten it with the others.  
  
It wasn't until the third time that he actually decided to give modeling a shot. The time he was approached on his honeymoon by a man with graying hair, a normal business card, and proof of his success in the form of references. Dean went into the agency in mid-November the year he was 27. He had given up on girls, or at least on weddings, and he had definitely given up on the grocery business.  
  
___  
  
Rory stepped into the bathroom. She had taken off the mismatched socks she was planning on doing something, anything, about her hair. After some water, some gel, and a mean hairbrush she managed to get it into a decent looking ponytail and she headed out for lunch.  
  
The elevator was empty going down, and when she reached the lobby she politely thanked the doorman for helping her that morning and turned left. There was a diner on the corner that served the best grilled cheese sandwich she had ever had, and their coffee wasn't half bad either. It didn't hurt that it was a quick meal, leaving her with plenty of time left in her break to get some writing in.  
  
That was the reason for her haphasard state lately. She had gotten a book deal, but her deadline was only a couple weeks away, and she didn't have an ending yet. She was hoping that if she just wrote and wrote and wrote the characters would, eventually, solve the problems for themselves, and she would be done. The only problem with that idea was that the characters were only getting themselves into a bigger mess than before. Even the minor players were getting wrapped up in it. "Guy at a Hot Dog Stand" had become Mick, the laundry man by day, pimp by night. A cute little boy named "Bobby" with a sentence mention had ended up five chapters in his point of view. Everyone wanted their opinions known, and because of it Rory couldn't get any sleep, and everyone knew Gilmores only functioned with sleep.  
  
Rory was startled by a rining noise just as Sandy the girl next door was about to tell her boyfriend why she hated "The Lord of the Rings" trilogy.   
  
"What?" she barked into the phone, grumpy that she had been pulled away from the explanation she had been trying to pull out of her own soul for years.  
  
"Gilmore, if you're going to be a partner in this business, you're going to have to actually work."  
  
"I'm coming Paris, don't get your thong in a twist."  
  
"I'm sorry, you must have mistaken my for Louise. Get your butt up here...NOW!"  
  
Rory hung up the phone and packed up her laptop. She dropped a crumpled wad of bills on the table as a tip for the waitress who had kept her coffee mug full, and headed out the door. It wasn't until she was once again at her desk that she breathed.  
  
***  
  
It's late, and Gilmores aren't the only ones who need sleep to function. See y'all soon.  
  
Elizabeth  
  
Word count: 1137 


	2. forgotten in a history sea

A/N: I know Narcos aren't really the most beloved group of fans on fanfiction.net, so thank you to the people who gave this story a chance.  
  
Disclaimer: Unless there are pigs flying outside my bedroom window and hell has a championship hockey team I do not own "The Gilmore Girls."  
  
__  
  
Dean had never really spent very much time in New York City. The crowds of people rushing from place to place only served to remind him just how vast the universe was. Manhattan always gave him the feeling that he could spend years in the city and never see the same person twice. He was thinking about this as he stopped for coffee on his way to the modeling agency. A blur of brown frizz rushed past him as he walked in at a pace New Yorkers would only recognize from waiting in line at the Empire State Building. In the blur's race to get out the door she had dropped a small slip of paper. He picked it up to see that it was a white napkin with a logo for Luke's Diner.  
  
While Dean ordered his coffee and drank it he examined the napkin. It was definitely the same Luke's, he would recognize the symbol for the little diner anywhere, having stared at it for almost 6 years while he lived in Stars Hollow. Around the little coffee cup were scribbled notes on what appeared to be a character.  
  
Brianna, 32, publishing assistant. Daughter of Kelly and Edward, mother of Anne (16). Lives in a small house, Minefield, New Jersey. Brown hair, blue eyes, tall. Wild. Fun.  
  
He pondered the napkin as he continued towards the modeling agency. There was something familiar about the handwriting, something familiar about the character it talked about. He just didn't know what.  
  
__  
  
Rory snuck carefully out of the office twenty minutes after she arrived. She knew Paris would kill her when she found out, but Rory needed her notes, and while their was little chance of finding them, she needed to at least look.  
  
It wasn't that she didn't already know everything about this character, she had lived with her for 19 years, after all, but having her notes made her feel more at ease when she began to write. If, for some reason, she didn't know something, and she didn't have it in front of her, she would have to interrupt herself and look for it. Her years at Chilton and Yale had taught Rory how she worked best, and she needed to stick with it.  
  
A quick scanning of the diner did not reveal the little napkin, and she walked back to her office building slowly. Not slowly by the normal human standard, but by a true New Yorker's standard. When she reached the elevator another rider was going up as well. She didn't look at him, just pressed the button for her floor and sighed.  
  
"Something wrong?" she heard a deep voice say. She looked up. Another model she figured.  
  
"Nothing."  
  
__  
  
Dean knew her. He didn't know why, but this woman was not new to him, and after three floors her name rolled off his tongue.  
  
"Rory."  
  
__  
  
words: 478  
  
A/N: I know it's short. I'm sorry. There will be more soon. 


End file.
